


Twenty Five Quid

by ddynoliaeth



Category: The Mighty Boosh (TV)
Genre: Artist!Vince, M/M, Model!Howard, Model/artist au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-13
Updated: 2017-08-14
Packaged: 2018-12-14 21:21:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11791719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ddynoliaeth/pseuds/ddynoliaeth
Summary: Howard Moon is a struggling academic who comes across an advert for a modelling gig for an artist. Vince Noir is branching out into more realistic paintings, but needs the perfect model to do it with.





	1. SUNDAY

“MODEL WANTED.

ARTIST SEEKING MODEL FOR WEEKLY SESSIONS.

£25 PER SESSION.

CONTACT VINCE ON XXXX-XXX-XXX”

 

Howard stared at the notice. He’d only come to the post office to pick up his package. A couple of volumes from Book Depository: he was on a bit of a tight budget. But the bright pink paper with crude little skulls drawn in glitter pen caught his eye - literally. The light reflecting off the last sentence had nearly blinded him as his eyes wandered while waiting in line. There were a series of little tabs at the bottom of the paper, each with the name “VINCE” printed on them in blocky letters and the same phone number as the bulletin. They were untouched. 

 

The line moved forward and Howard was served. He stammered through his name, made nervous by the woman teller’s customer service smile, and collected his package. He shuffled to the door with his head bowed, embarrassed at himself as per usual, when the shining notice caught the corner of his eye again. Howard paused.

 

With a deep breath, he snatched a tab from the bottom of the bulletin and scampered away out of the post office and up the street back to his flat.

 

—— —— —— ——

 

It took another three days of the tab burning a hole through his wallet for Howard to get his shit together and call the number. His hands were sweaty and shaky as he dialled, but he desperately needed that extra £25 a week. Besides, he was a big bloke. He could probably hold his own in a fight if it came to it. He bucked up and pressed “call”.

 

“Alright?” came the peppy response. The connection wasn’t too great, but whoever this Vince guy was he sounded like he’d eaten seven bags of wizz fizz and was bouncing off the walls.

 

“Uhhhh…” Howard said.

 

“Sorry, I didn’t recognise the number. Are you calling about my installation because the council said it was fine and I did all my paperwork.”

 

“M-model!” Howard blurted out.

 

“What, mate?” The voice on the other end seemed more amused than offended, so Howard soldiered on instead of immediately hanging up as his instincts told him.

 

“I-I’m calling about the model position. This is the right number, right?”

 

“Oh, yeah, yeah it is! Sorry, it’s been weeks and nobody’s called so I totally forgot about it. I’m Vince.”

 

“Howard. Moon.”

 

“Alright, Howard?”

“Yeah.”

 

“… Okay, so, I’ve gotta get this piece done for a gallery showing as soon as possible. Do you think we could meet up for coffee or something? Just to see if, you know, you’d be right for the job, yeah?”

 

“Uh, yeah, yeah. Sure.”

 

“I’m free right now?”

 

—— —— —— ——

 

Howard sat awkwardly wringing his hands in his local coffee shop, just around the corner of his flat. He had in front of him a small flat white, and he was nervously watching the door in a bit of a jerky, twitchy sort of way when a vision of God Himself walked into the café. 

 

The man moved with a level of grace that would put a swan to shame, with a haircut reminiscent of one of those black Australian ones, and a nose that one might mistake for a beak. But those eyes; wide and blue, framed in black kohl, sweeping the café for whoever lucky sod it was he was meeting. Howard suddenly felt an odd mixture of inadequacy and intense attraction. He couldn’t quite figure out if he wanted to be like the man, or be with him.

 

And then Howard’s brain short-circuited as the man smiled and began making his way over to his table.

 

“Howard?” he asked, voice even cheekier in person.

 

“Uh… Yes.”

 

“Alright? I’m Vince Noir. It’s nice to meet you,” Vince said, sitting down opposite him and holding his hand out to shake. Howard surreptitiously wiped his hand on his cords before taking it. _God, he’s hands aren’t half soft, too._

 

“Not to be all business or nothing, but I’m really running out of time on this deadline, so do you mind if I ask a coupla questions?”

 

“Um, sure.”

 

“Right!” Vince said, nodding as his eyes sparkled. He turned in his seat to lock gazes with the barista. “My usual, please, Jimmy!”

 

Jimmy nodded, grinning, and set about making a hot chocolate with many marshmallows on the side. He quickly grabbed a piece of strawberry cake from the display as Vince turned back.

 

“Now, I know the advert said ‘one session a week’, but my deadline is actually Friday, so it’ll have to be a session a day, instead. Is that alright with you?”

 

“Yeah, sure,” Howard said. “I work my own hours, anyway.”

 

“Oh, yeah? What do you do?”

“I’m an academic, sir. Classical literature.”

 

“Sounds like you dress for your job, then,” Vince said, smirking. Howard frowned, sure that he’d been insulted but too confused by the friendly, teasing tone to be properly offended.

 

“I’ll be paying you the £25 per session, don’t worry about that. And I can promise I have the cash. The only other issue I can really think that you might have is, well…”

 

Jimmy came over and placed Vince’s hot chocolate and strawberry cake on the table. “Figured you could use the extra sugar,” he said. “I know you’re stressed about Bob’s showing.”

 

“Thanks, Jimmy,” Vince smiled, overly thankful. He tucked into his cake, speaking to Howard through his bite as Jimmy wandered back to his station behind the counter. “Anyway, the only other thing I can think of is, I’ve really gotta do this in the nude.”

 

Howard choked on nothing. 

 

“Why’ve you got to be nude?” Howard asked. Vince laughed; a loud, hearty laugh, round and full of genuine mirth. 

 

“Not me, Howard, ya bumberclaat! You!”

 

“Oh,” Howard said, cheeks reddening with embarrassment as he shrunk down into his chest, pulling his coffee to his lips to hide his face. 

 

“I understand if that’s a dealbreaker,” Vince said, serious again.

 

“I- no. No, it’s not,” Howard said, voice very small. 

 

“Genius! I’ll just finish my cake and we can go start the first session, yeah?” 

 

“…Yeah.”

 

—— —— —— ——

 

Vince Noir’s flat was essentially an extension of himself. The walls were covered in paintings - mostly rather abstract works, nearly cubist in nature, with bright colours and bold black lines. The floors involved a series of circular rugs, a bunch of unfinished canvases spread about. A massive, plush-looking red couch faced a quite large telly, and this was all only in the living area. 

 

Vince flounced past Howard in typical fashion, Howard was already learning. He discarded his bright peacock blue coat on the couch, rolled up his opaque white sleeves, and pulled a chair out from the breakfast island leading into the kitchen. He placed it in the middle of the room, and puttered about collecting a fresh canvas, paints, pencils, and a cup of water to wash his brushes in. 

 

“Don’t just stand there,” he said, putting the canvas down on the ground in front of the chair. “Come in and get yourself comfortable!” 

Howard shuffled forwards as Vince pulled off his little silver boots to reveal mismatched socks, heading towards the chair. He sat down, laying his hands conservatively in his lap.

 

“Oh, come on, Howard,” Vince whined, grinning as he chucked his shoes over the couch. “I know it’s only been a half hour, but you know I need you with all your clothes off.” 

 

Howard shivered. He hadn’t exactly had a lot of experience being naked in front of other people. Or any, in fact. Howard Moon was very explicitly a virgin, but there was no way he was giving that information to some bloke who was paying him to sit still for two hours a day. 

 

He took his clothes off slowly, uncomfortably, as Vince mercifully kept himself busy prepping his canvas and sorting out his implements. He lost his jacket (horrified muffin), his shirt (muted hawaiian), his shoes and cords (broken fawn). Vince looked up when he was just down to the tight black briefs he’d been wearing - unaware he’d be beginning his modelling career this afternoon. Vince gave him one look in the eyes, and Howard turned away, bashfully reaching for his briefs and pulling them down. He dropped them on the pile of his clothes.

 

Vince stood up, brushing his hands on his surprisingly tight blue jeans. He wandered over to Howard as he settled himself into the chair, carefully crossing his legs and hiding all the bits nobody but he had seen. Vince bent down sideways slightly at the waist and looked directly into Howard’s eyes, his hair falling like a lampshade tassel. 

 

“I’m sorry, Howard, but is it okay if I move you around a bit?” he asked. “I’ve gotta get you in the right position.”

 

“Oh, um,” Howard said, turning beet red immediately. “O-okay.”

 

“I promise I won’t be sneaking too many peeks,” Vince said, cheeky grin in place as he reached out and began manoeuvring Howard into what was supposed to be a relaxed, slightly regal position, but became quite tense with Howard’s sheepishness. 

 

“Oi, relax a little there, Howard. Anyone’d think you’d never been naked in front of someone before.”

 

And so Howard sat, balls to the fucking wind, legs wide apart and hands on his knees, looking off to the side with a particularly pained expression on his face. Vince sat on his knees in front of Howard, looking up at him with those wide eyes, eyebrows raised, and sketching out Howard’s likeness on the canvas. 

 

“So what’s it like,” Vince began after a few minutes of silence from both parties. “Being a academic and all? I’ve never been good at all that thinking stuff. I’m a bit thick, if I’m being honest.”

 

“Oh, well, I’m sure it’s not as luxurious as being an artist, but I like it plenty.”

 

“You work for a university?”

 

“Freelance. I sell articles to journals.”

 

“Oooh, fancy,” Vince mocked, lightheartedly. 

 

“I’ll have you know my work is very highly regarded, sir.”

 

“I’m sure it is.”

 

They bantered back and forth like that for a while and Howard began to relax a little bit. Vince was true to his word and didn’t spend any more time than necessary lingering anywhere. In fact, he was surprisingly professional about the whole thing. 

 

“Alright, I think that’s about enough for today,” he said finally, putting his pencil down to the side and looking critically at his work for a moment while Howard returned his modesty. “I want to thank you for this, Howard. It means a lot that you’d do it, even though you’re clearly not completely comfortable with it all.”

 

Howard turned to Vince, but he was still looking at his canvas with a serious expression. It was strange; the man had said plenty of kind things during the day, but this was the first that had felt like it went beyond the surface pleasantries you exchange with a near-stranger. It felt almost… genuine. 

 

“Well, I need the money,” Howard said, then kicked himself for doing so. 

 

“Same time tomorrow, yeah?” Vince asked, leading him to the door. His permanent smile was back on his face.

 

“Yeah.”

 

“He’s the twenty five quid.”

 

“Thanks.”

 

“I’m looking forward to seeing you again, Howard.”

 

The door closed behind him. Howard turned and looked at the wood for a moment, thinking.

 

“You, too, Vince.” 


	2. MONDAY

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Howard comes back for his second session.

 

“Bring a book today! I wanna see you in your natural habitat! ;)”

 

Vince sent the text, a little worried his teasing manner would come across as flirtatious - but only if it made Howard uncomfortable. He didn’t have any particular designs on the man, but he was never one to rule out the possibility. And besides, he’d seen what Howard had to offer, and it certainly wasn’t something Vince would ever turn down.

 

_Wonder if he waxes,_ Vince thought, wrapping himself in his soft silk kimono, bare feet making soft padding sounds on the hardwood floors as he left his bedroom to the kitchen. _Nobody’s that hairless without a little cosmetic help._

 

It was a few hours until Howard was supposed to come over, so Vince pottered around the kitchen making himself a cup of tea with six spoonfuls of sugar. How he managed to stay as thin and lithe as he did was a medical mystery to him, but it worked and he wasn’t about to mess with a good thing, being able to eat the way he did.

 

Having made himself tea and slathered a couple of pieces of toast with Nutella, Vince slumped on his couch, wrapping himself in the fluffy throw and switching on the telly. He put on some kids’ shows - _Horrible Histories_ , luckily; one of his favourites - and munched on his breakfast, thinking about the paintings he had to get done for his showing at Bob Fossil’s Galliarium. The name could do with a bit of a tune-up, in Vince’s humble opinion, but the space was nice and had some good natural lighting. He’d finished most of the works and only had two to go: Howard’s portrait, and a piece reminiscent of a sort of pointy-looking owl. He knew it would be taken to be a reflective piece on his inner turmoil or some shit like that, but honestly Vince wasn’t that deep. He was a bright Sunshine Kid, and all the work he produced was more an exploration of colour, positive feelings, even comedy. His work may be rather absurdist at times - or, in fact, most times - but that didn’t necessarily have to translate to hidden meanings and deep symbolism. He just liked weird pointy owls.

 

He sighed, putting his plate and mug on the coffee table, then swooped away from the couch to turn on the heating and collect his equipment to start on Pointy Owl Number Three. He sat on his legs with Simon Farnaby’svoice singing about stupid deaths, losing himself in the process of painting, in the movement of his brush against the canvas, the way the paint would move in globules and as a unit. He loved the feeling of the brush against a well-primed canvas, the graceful almost-dance his arm would take in its journey along the page. Shit, there he went again, going all deep and poetic, when that really wasn’t him. It felt wrong, being like that. He stabbed the canvas with his brush a couple of times to make himself feel better. This wasn’t the piece to be pushing his emotions into. That would come later.

 

Or now, as it would happen. Vince’s singing along to the Kings and Queens of England - _“William, William, Henry, Stephen, Henry, Richard, John, oi!”_ \- was cut short by a hesitant knock at the door. He grinned, jumping up and rubbing his hands on his bare knees, pulling the kimono further around his waist and tying it before opening the door to Howard’s nervous but smiling face.

“Howard! Come in!” Vince said, bouncing on the balls of his feet with excitement. It was strange - he’d not been so interested in seeing another person in a long time. Despite being somewhat of a social butterfly, Vince didn’t have too many close personal friends. Perhaps Naboo and Bollo in the flat across the way might count - they’d spent many a night hanging out and dancing to electro music in Vince’s studio space-slash-living room - but the majority of the people he considered friends were not much more than casual acquaintances. But Howard had some sort of primordial draw to him, something that Vince had spent weeks hoping and looking for. Perhaps longer, although one day couldn’t really suggest that yet.

 

“You’re, um, you look good,” Howard muttered, hiding his face behind wisps of chestnut brown hair. Vince had the urge to sweep them out of his face, but balled his hands up against his legs.

 

“You, too,” he said instead. “Although, unfortunately we have to undo all your hard work.”

 

“I brought a book,” Howard said, taking off his jacket and draping it carefully over the back of the couch. Vince busied himself with putting away his owl painting and gathering up his supplies for his Howard painting. 

 

When Howard was seated in the correct position, in the correct state of dress, Vince leapt up and grabbed his book, forcibly placing it in Howard’s hands.

 

“Don’t I have to sit the same way?”

 

“Common misconception,” Vince said, waggling his finger in Howard’s face. “I work best when my subject is relaxed and doing what he likes. Or, at least, I think I do. Whatever - just read the book.”

 

Howard seemed unconvinced, but carefully opened his book - _The Picture of Dorian Gray_ by Oscar Wilde - and set about attempting to read. Vince wondered over to his stereo system and plugged in his phone, putting something poppy and full of guitars on that Howard didn’t recognise.

 

“You like this sort of music, Howard?” Vince asked, settling on the ground and squeezing some paint out onto his palette. 

 

“I’m more of a jazz man, myself,” Howard said, still tense but relieved he could shield himself a bit with his strategically placed Penguin Classic. 

 

“Ooh,” Vince said, face scrunching up in mock disgust. “I hate jazz. I’m allergic to it.”

 

“You can’t be allergic to music.”

 

“Sure you can. It makes my face go all red and blotchy. Something about saxophones and trumpets and stuff just makes my throat close up. No good.” He shook his head, black tresses waving about his face.

 

“But jazz is the only true music! Notes all a-flurry, a musician’s heart worn on his trumpet sleeve. Jazz is the music of passion, sir, of grace and emotion.”

 

“I like music that you can feel,” Vince said, almost mixing his brush in his cup of tea before he caught himself. “Music with the bass turned way up, that you can feel deep in your chest. I like music you can dance to.”

 

“You can dance to jazz.”

 

“That ain’t dancing, that’s just moving around!”

 

“What’s the difference?”

 

“Dancing is about feeling the music move through you. About making yourself a part of it. And dancing with someone else is about making yourself a part of them. It’s like art.”

 

“You seem to have put a lot of thought into this.”

 

Vince balked at the suggestion. “N-Not really. I just say stuff without really thinking about it sometimes.”

 

“It sounded very eloquent to me.”

 

“Mm, well, thanks,” Vince muttered, going a little pink around the ears. Howard returned to his reading and began to really unclench, his limbs going all loose, his torso sitting a bit straighter as he got involved in his book and forgot he was posing in the nude. 

 

Vince took a moment to appreciate the form in front of him - really appreciate it. With Howard otherwise occupied, his self-consciousness seemed to drip away, replaced by a soft sort of power, a confidence Vince wasn’t sure he could see in a man like Howard. From the few hours he’d spent staring at him, analysing every element of him, Vince thought he’d surmised quite a lot about Howard Moon. But this image before him, this sturdy sort of man, with his tiny frown of concentration, his soft, hairless belly, his robust thighs - Vince felt the stirrings of some real attraction to Howard. He gritted his teeth and focused on the way Howard’s arms lay across his legs, the strong fingers gripping the pages of _Dorian Gray_ gently, almost lovingly.

 

_Cut that out!_ Vince thought to himself sharply. It wouldn't do to be having too many unprofessional thoughts. And Vince knew that innocent admiration could turn quickly into something more… not insidious, but certainly far less innocent. 

 

“Read me some of your book?” Vince asked.

 

Howard startled a little, tensing up again, before nodding, slightly confused, and clearing his throat.

 

“”I know you will laugh at me,” he replied, “but I really can’t exhibit it. I have put too much of myself into it.” Lord Henry stretched himself out on the divan and laughed. “Yes, I knew you would; but it is quite true all the same.””

“What’re they talking about?”

 

“Basil, an artist, has painted a portrait of Dorian Gray, a beautiful man with whom he has fallen in love,” Howard said. 

 

“Oh, so this book’s about gay men?” Vince asked, perking up with a happy smile on his face.

 

“Well, it’s not explicitly stated, but given the author’s well-known homosexuality I, and a lot of other academics, have surmised that, yes, it is about men who love this man, Dorian Gray. Although, it’s also about the callousness of vanity and the eventual destruction it brings.”

 

“I’m not so sure about that bit,” Vince said, mixing himself a skin tone a few shades lighter than Howard’s own. “I’m pretty vain and people seem to like me just fine.”

 

“Well,” Howard began, chewing on his lip. “I’ve got to agree with you there. I stay far away from all that stuff and people tend more towards forgetting me than anything else.”

 

“I can’t imagine anyone forgetting you, Howard,” Vince said.

 

Howard blinked a few times, frowning.

 

“You don’t have to be mean about it,” he said, chest puffing out in offence. “I know that ‘beauty ends where an intellectual expression begins’, but I’d much rather be intellectual than beautiful.”

 

“I didn’t mean it as a joke,” Vince said. “I think you’ve got a very memorable personality. Just because your face is a bit plain don’t mean you ain’t beautiful, either.”

 

“Plain? I’ll have you know I get a lot of compliments about my face, thank you very much, sir.”

 

“I’m just saying it looks a little bit like a billiards ball.”

 

“Better than looking like a lion buggered a crow.”

 

Vince laughed, a full-body laugh, eyes crinkled shut and belly heaving. He put his hands over his face, paintbrush sticking out between his fingers, and pretended to wipe tears away.

 

“You’re right funny when you want to be, Howard.”

 

Howard didn’t know how to respond to that, so he went back to reading his book.

 

Vince continued to paint as he grinned, peeking up through his fringe every now and then to get another look at his model. Howard didn’t relax completely again the rest of the session, and more than once Vince caught him looking when he went for another reference look. But he had a tiny smile on his face under the moustache, so Vince didn’t worry too much about it all.

 

When Howard started yawning Vince decided it was time to pack up for the day. He washed his brushes in the sink as Howard put his clothes back on, and quickly hid the painting from his tiny prying eyes.

 

“No looking until it’s done,” he said by way of explanation. 

 

Howard pouted and shrugged on his jacket, picking up his book from the chair. He’d barely read any of it after hearing Vince laugh so excitedly. 

 

“Did you want to stay for a cup of tea or anything? I make a great hot choccy.”

 

“Hot choccy? No, thank you. I don’t like sweets very much.”

 

“Oh, come on.”

 

“Another day. Maybe.”

 

“Alright,” Vince said, visibly disappointed. He handed Howard the £25. “See you tomorrow?”

 

“Yes, sir.”

 

“I’m counting on you,” Vince said, and closed the door after Howard. 

 

—— —— —— —— 

 

As Vince got himself ready for bed that night, he reflected on his relationship with his newfound model. He admitted to himself that he wasn’t acting in a purely professional manner, but so much of Howard begged to be teased - his face, his manner of speaking, his music tastes ( _awful_ ). But more than that, Vince wanted Howard to like him. He wanted to be at a point in their relationship, however professional, that they could make jabs at one another and know there was no real malice behind it. And, it seemed, that after only two short days of knowing each other, they had already managed to reach that level of intimacy.

 

Vince hoped that could continue. Hoped they could, potentially, be actual friends after they parted ways from this arrangement. He noted with no small amount of discomfort that this was the most he’d talked to the same person for a long time, and the most he’d enjoyed someone’s company since meeting the Shaman and gorilla living across the hall from him. It was nice to get to know a kind, normal man. So many of his friends were so out there, it was nice to have a kind of grounding stick to the normal world he so rarely inhabited. 

 

Besides all that, Howard was really starting to look pretty damn fit.


End file.
